At this point, I’ve lived far too many lives to count as an avocado-toast-eating millennial. Inside me is a Russian nesting doll of sorts—worlds within worlds falling away into insignificance. Old misbegotten lookalikes in various states of atrophy that I carry around with me under my epidermis. The volunteer teacher in the Louisiana Bayou, the Midwest newspaperman, the valet running back and forth to a parking garage in Boston’s North End—their memories and experiences unravel like yellowed film reel in a clunky film projector that I, admittedly, consult from time to time. Some are more tangible than others. In my…
